Page 107 of Sweet Escape
He kisses the side of my head, then steps away, offering me his hand. “Come on.”
I let him guide me outside into the early fall air, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. “Close your eyes,” he says. “I mean it. I’ll know if you’re peeking.”
Gravel crunches underfoot as he leads me somewhere completely blind. The smell of hay and horses, what I’m beginning to recognize as the scent of home, envelopes me. It doesn’t take long to get where we’re going.
“Ok. You can look now.”
When I open my eyes, the sight that greets me is a large white vintage camper with a pink stripe around the middle.
“There’s no rush to get it set up,” he says. “We can wait until after Gracie is here, or you can start planning right away. It’s completely up to you.”
Without thinking, I practically throw myself at him, and he catches me around the waist. A deep chuckle escapes him just before I plant my mouth on his for the first time in weeks.
He growls against my lips and takes me hungrily. “Fuck, I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” A lone tear escapes, and he kisses it away. “Promise we’ll never go through something like that again,” I whisper. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
He takes hold of my face and brings his forehead to mine. “I can’t promise we won’t fight, and you’ll definitely get sick and tired of my bossy ass, but I promise I’ll never intentionally hurt you.”
I smile and take a step back. “A+ groveling, Big Guy.”
He chuckles. “Just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”
“You could’ve done that with a bowl of popcorn and a bag of M&M’s. You didn’t have to go and make my wildest dreams come true.”
“Why not? You are my wildest dream, Olivia Sullivan. You should have yours, too.”
“I already do.”
Chapter 29
Home Sweet Home
?I can’t make you love me - Bonnie Raitt
28 weeks: Baby is the size of an eggplant
Wilder
“I think I hate it,”she says. “No. Actually, I do hate it.”
I glance across the room to where Olivia is staring at the freshly painted light yellow wall with her head cocked to the side. One of her hands absently glides over her rounded belly beneath her paint-splattered overalls. Her hair is up in what she calls space buns, mirroring the ones she did for Emmy before we sent her off to spend the morning with my mom. Toddlers and paint are a match made in hell.
Shaking my head, I respond, “This is the third time we’ve changed it.”
“It’s not right. It needs to be perfect for her.”
I place my paint roller on the tray and stride across the room, my palms sliding up and down her arms in a soothing motion. “For her? Or for you? Hate to break it to you, Cupcake, but she’s a baby. She doesn’t care what her room looks like. Why don’t you tell me what’sreallybothering you?”
Olivia exhales a long breath and rests her forehead against my sternum. I smooth a hand down her back, keeping her there.
“I’m—scared.” Her words are barely a whisper, but it pierces me all the same.
Threading my fingers through hers, I lead Olivia to the only piece of furniture in the room—a light oak rocking chair that belonged to my mother. I pluck off the drop cloth that’s protecting it from the possibility of paint splatters. Olivia sits, and I crouch before her.
“What are you afraid of?”I ask.
She hesitates for a long moment before she finally speaks. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Who thought it would be a good idea to give me a baby? I can barely take care of myself on a good day.”
